John Goldbach - It Is an Honest Ghost

‘Richard Onyango, everybody,’ said Kenneth, ‘and prints of his paintings will be for sale in the lobby at the Heron Court Hotel tomorrow afternoon, and Richard will be there to sign them, too. Another round of applause for Richard,’ said Kenneth.

‘That was very strange,’ I said to Boris.

‘Yes, indeed, very strange,’ he said.

‘But the paintings are strangely sublime.’

‘Amazing,’ said Boris. ‘I just don’t think anyone was expecting that at a discotheque.’

We laughed.

‘That guy might be the coolest man I’ve ever seen,’ I said.

‘Perhaps,’ said Boris. ‘He might be.’

‘If the prints aren’t overly expensive I’m going to buy a couple,’ I said.

‘Me too!’ he said.

Kenneth invited Boris and me to the VIP lounge, where a group of people were drinking and a DJ was spinning records.

‘I want to introduce you guys to my father,’ said Kenneth, and he brought us over to a handsome old gentleman sitting on a sofa with Kenneth’s sister and some others.

‘ Baba ,’ said Kenneth, ‘these are my friends Boris and John.’ He turned to us. ‘Guys,’ he said proudly, ‘this is my father, Ezekiel.’

We shook hands and it was clear Ezekiel’s eyesight was failing him, his corneas cloudy, his face kind. He seemed happy, handsome, purblind and smiling, his hands on his knees, his back straight, surrounded by family and friends.

Things were winding down and Billy Ocean’s ‘Get Outta My Dreams, Get into My Car’ played and Stanley sang along, dancing, and we all laughed. His sister Sharon popped her shoulders along to the song, smiling, and I was happy, too.

A bunch of people were heading to a club called Florida 2000, but I’d had enough to drink and was beat. Boris and I got on one of the shuttle buses back to the hotel.

Back in my room, I felt I was getting soft so I got down on the floor and did some push-ups and sit-ups. While doing some sit-ups, I heard a knock at the door and I wondered whether I was making too much noise. I opened the door and it was Melissa from North Carolina, from the bar.

‘Hey,’ she said and walked into my room.

‘Hey,’ I said. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I thought maybe you want to hang out,’ she said, pressing up against me. And she kissed me. And I kissed her back.

‘What do you think your girlfriend would say?’ she said. ‘What would Stacey say?’ she whispered in my ear.

‘All right, sorry,’ I said. ‘You have to go.’ And I opened the door to the room. She walked out. ‘Goodnight,’ I said. ‘And thanks for stopping by.’

‘Goodnight,’ she said and smiled, a bit devilishly, though also warmly, so I smiled back.

I closed the door and did some push-ups, hoping they’d rid me of my guilt. I was glad things didn’t develop, though, so I kept doing push-ups.

Eventually, I got into bed. I closed my eyes. I fell asleep.

In the morning I ate only tea and toast, so as not to ruin my appetite, but I wanted to have something in my stomach before taking my pills. I finally felt somewhat rested, even though we were out late, but I’d slept a bit at least, a few hours, like four or five — the most I’d slept since landing in Nairobi.

My eye looked a little better, too, the bruising underneath fading.

I bumped into Mark at breakfast and he said, ‘I was just talking to Elizabeth, the Esquire writer, and she isn’t doing so well.’

‘What’s wrong?’ I said.

‘I guess after the club last night a bunch of them went back to Kenneth’s sister’s place and they were all boozing, but Elizabeth decided to stop drinking and instead drank water from May’s Brita and today she’s having GI issues.’

‘Oh man, that’s terrible.’

‘Yeah, not pleasant.’

‘I have some pills the doctor gave me at the Tropical Diseases Clinic in Montreal, like basically a double dose of Imodium with an antibiotic, too. He only gave me a few,’ I said, ‘because I gather they’re pretty potent and will block you up for like a month if you overdo it. I’ll give her a couple.’

‘I’m sure she’d appreciate it,’ said Mark.

After breakfast, after returning to my room to take the antimalarials and grab the stomach meds, while waiting for our bus, I spotted Elizabeth in the lobby and walked over to her and said, ‘Hey, I heard you aren’t feeling well, like having stomach issues.’

She said, ‘You could hear me from your room?’

‘Ha, no,’ I said. ‘But Mark told me you were having some gi issues, from drinking from May’s Brita.’

‘I feel like I’m dying,’ she said, rubbing her stomach.

‘Well I’ve got some pills, some Ciprofloxacin, for bacterial infections.’ We looked at each other. ‘It’ll help your stomach,’ I said. ‘I got the pills from the Tropical Diseases Clinic in Montreal, before the trip.’

I produced two large pills from my pocket.

‘Here,’ I said. ‘Take these.’

She accepted.

‘Thank you.’

‘He only gave me four, said they’re powerful.’

‘Excellent!’ Elizabeth said. ‘I’ll try anything. Thanks again.’

On our way out of the city we drove past Kibera, one of the largest slums on the planet, both retrograde and futuristic, off in the distance. Boris had visited once and taken some stunning photos but that’s the closest I’d get.

The bus stopped once, so people could pee if they had to and I did so I did. I got off the bus and looked down onto the endless valleys and urinated in the shade of thorny acacia branches.

A Maasai, not a herdsman but a herdboy, stood on the side of a hill, wrapped in a reddish shuka , a long straight stick in hand and a small skinny calf at his side, negotiating the rocky hillside. Our shuttle bus wound its way up and around the hills. The landscape was crushingly beautiful. My ears popped with the elevation. Most of the green hills were more beige and red than green, the grass patchy and sunburnt.

We arrived at the restaurant, which was outdoors in a Maasai village, though for tourists. Everywhere there were Maasai men in red shuka s and covered in colourful beaded jewellery, the beadwork stunning and intricately patterned.

We sat at picnic tables on a patio precipice overlooking the deep, infinite valleys. I saw a young man with a goat on a rope.

Boris said, ‘That’s our lunch.’

We drank beer and bottled water and took in all the wonder. The air was fresh and I kept closing my eyes under my sunglasses, breathing, meditative.

Although I’d been feeling generally lousy, the beauty of the Rift Valley overwhelmed me. The endless blue sky, the perfect rippling cloudbanks, low down, casting shadows on the valleys, the greens, reds and browns. I’d never seen such perfect sky — the cradle of civilization, without a doubt.

Our lunch arrived on wooden cutting boards.

Basically, it was piles of fresh goat meat, with little piles of salt on the corners of the cutting boards, so as to rub on the meat. We rubbed salt on the goat and ate with our hands. We also ate ugali , a doughy cornmeal starch dish, and collard greens.

Kenneth, Boris, Stanley and Sharon all sat at the same picnic table as me, as did a few other people I didn’t know. I felt grateful for my friends, for the food, the goat that gave its life, the salts at the corners of the cutting board, the beer and water I drank, for all the love under heaven.

At the end of the meal, a blood sausage called mūtura was served.

Kenneth said, ‘Most wazungu don’t like mūtura . It’s a little intense for them.’

‘It’s not for me,’ said Boris, a sentiment echoed by pretty much everyone at the table, as we stared at the pile of extremely bloody stuffed intestines.